Almost Picture Perfect
by Glum n Dumb Skittery
Summary: (rated for profanity, mild slash) AU SnitchSkittery. Picture this. “Snitch, brace yourself. I know you’ve kinda been out of it in the last few weeks. But you can’t keep living like this.” So you lean over and scan the two articles. "No." Picture t


A/N: Written in a fit of frustration at my pathetic revivals of Bleed/Breathe which I refuse to come out as right as I felt the first drafts did. That and am sleep-deprived from last night's football game and yesterday's band practice. Bass Drum harness = ouch. Pushing gong up the damn hill = evil.

All standard disclaimers apply.

Truth is the most horrible joke of all - Portuguese Proverb

A man is always a prey to his truths. Once he has admitted them, he cannot free himself from them. -Albert Camus

I know mankind too well to think they are capable of receiving the truth, much less of applauding it. -Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

Picture this.

You're sitting there, right at the windowsill, just sitting there, waiting. Counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds, with each and every heartbeat, until he comes home. The refrigerator hums monotonously some meters away, and this one-bedroom apartment feels suddenly too big. The ceiling opens up far too wide and you can't seem to find anything to hold on to, like you're being sucked into the expanse and it's inevitable. You need him to ground you, to hold on to. He's your gravity.

Picture this.

The streets below are filled with people, walking past hurriedly, brushing by one another without second glance. Toes are stepped on, bags are crushed, pockets are picked, and cell phones do not leave perfectly shaped ears for a second. You can hear the cacophony of sound beneath you, the voices entwining, swirling, mixing, all so hideous, wrapping around the smoke-ridden air. A woman complains about Constance, who wears far too much makeup and way too little clothing. A man bellows to the person on the other line that _he can't hear you_! A child's pathetic wail crescendos at exactly the same moment an ambulance goes speeding down the streets. Car horns honk at each other, at everything, at nothing, as they move out of the way, thick and condensed as the morning traffic has become.

And you lean your head against the window pane for just a moment, before getting up and shutting it completely. The noises are muffled. But they're still there.

Picture this.

It's only been three hours since you've woken up. The apartment was empty as you blinked open your eyes. _He's left for work without waking me up,_ you thought, feeling the tears that felt like flames prick at your eyes almost instantaneously. But you sucked it up. This wasn't the first time. You summed it up to an important deadline he had to meet. After all, he was a journalist, and a slacker at that. You're a heavy sleeper too. If you add the two together, there really isn't much sense in one attempting to wake the other up without a lose-lose situation. So you sat at the window. Watched. And waited.

Picture this.

It's lunchtime. He usually comes home for lunch, bringing something from the deli around the corner, the deli he claims has the best damn meat in the entire state. Or maybe from the pizzeria several blocks down, where he always seems to get a discount because the manager's daughter is infatuated with him. Even if he is eleven years older than her. _Stupid teenage hormones_, you'd mumbled once as she winked at him before getting his order. As soon as she'd left, he turned to you and chuckled. "Jealous?" _Very_, you'd responded, adding a little pout. He'd slid an arm around your shoulders and pulled you close. Kissing your cheek sweetly, he'd whispered, "You're the only one for me, you know that right?"

And everything had been made right in the world.

You cling to that memory, nursing your fourth cup of coffee of the morning, as you sit in the dingy dining room, which is also the living room, and wait for him. Legs swing back and forth gently as you reminisce. Any minute now, he'll waltz in, "surprise" lunch in hand. You're sure of it.

Picture this.

You're on your sixth cup of coffee and he's still not back. You sigh and reach back for the cordless, punching the first button on speed dial. His cell phone. As the line connects, you absently play with the tiny hairs at the nape of your neck. A habit he finds adorable. You smile at the thought. The line connects, your call goes through, and you hear the ringing begin. Once. Twice. Thrice. Four times.

"We're sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer available or has been disconnected. Please hang up and try dialing the number again." The recorded voice message of the operator leaves you in a stupor.

_He must've turned his phone off,_ you conclude and hang up. You return to the coffee pot and start in on the last of it. He'll be home soon. He must be caught in traffic.

Picture this.

At around 1:30 PM, you start to realize that maybe he's just not coming home. He probably missed his deadline, you think. He has to work overtime. You sum it up to that and put your cup in the sink, leaving it for later. Your head is spinning and your hands shaking. You're a complete livewire from all the damn coffee. And you don't even realize it. A headache is coming on. Fast.

Picture this.

There's a knocking at the door and you hadn't even realized you'd fallen asleep and unsteadily get to your feet, rushing towards the door without thought. _He's back_, you think excitedly. Suddenly the intense headache doesn't seem so bad, and the caffeine is steadily wearing off. _Won't it be funny?_ you think, when he's the one that's so skittish and now you've gone and got yourself wired. You laugh to yourself as you throw the door open.

"Did you forget your key?" You ask, mock-indignant, hands on hips, and smiling all the same.

Picture this.

"Dude, if I _had_ a key, I wouldn't have had to knock. Nice seeing you too, dude. How're you doin'?"

It isn't him at the door. Instead, it's Itey. You roll your eyes and let him in, closing the door behind him, as he has his hands full with some Styrofoam boxes that smell like grease. "Sorry I'm late," he's saying as he sets them down on the table in the dining room/living room. "There was an accident on the interstate, and all I could pick up was some Chinese food. Think you can stomach it?"

You take a seat next to him and shrug. You hadn't even known he was coming. "Whatever."

He glances up from his unpacking of the food, steam billowing up from a tray of chow fun. "Wha's'a matter with you?"

You sigh. "Skittery didn't come home yet."

When he doesn't say anything, you look up.

Picture this.

He's staring at you with large confused eyes, his curly hair falling almost into them, his eyebrows furrowed as he stares at you. Full lips form the word "what?" ever so softly, a whisper, but not. He almost chokes on it too, and said eyes seem too bright all of a sudden, threatened with the onslaught of tears.

Picture this.

Itey's been your best friend since before he was even known as Itey, back to when he was just Eric Gonzalez and the Hispanic freak amongst the horrendous discriminatory nature of preschoolers, who feared the unknown, despite all remarks of childish innocence. And the way he's staring at you now reminds you of when you were both eight years old and his dog, Tibby, got run over in the streets of Manhattan.

A cold, uncomfortable lump settles itself right below your stomach. Rock-hard and unmoving. "Itey," you hear yourself say, "you okay?"

Picture this.

He nods, hurriedly blinking back the tears and continuing on his way with the removing of the food. "Snitch," he asks after a while.  
  
"Yeah?" You respond tiredly, the aftermath of the caffeine still lingering between your temples, just beneath your forehead.  
  
"When Racetrack visited you yesterday, what did you eat?"

You blink. "Race didn't come yesterday. Skittery brought home food. Corn chowder from the restaurant near the theatre." Itey sits back on his heels and stares at you.

You suddenly feel threatened and stare back.

Picture this.

Itey shakes his head. "Snitch, _Race_ came here and brought you lunch yesterday. I know. He _told_ me specifically. _He_ brought you the corn chowder. From his parent's diner."

You feel like you're going insane. It wasn't Race. It was Skittery. Skittery never _ever_ forgot to bring home lunch. Except today. But he probably had good reason. You _knew_ he had a fucking _reason_.

So you tell him so. And still Itey shakes his head. "No, Snitch. No."

The tears come.  
  
Picture this.

Itey slowly gets up and tells you to wait here, before disappearing into the bedroom seven steps away and returning with several things in hand: a photo album, a piece of paper, and clipped newspaper article, yellowed with age.

Picture this.

He opens the photo album to reveal a picture of you and Skittery, smiling radiantly. "Snitch and Skittery," he says softly. "The perfect couple." You find yourself unable to hide a grin.

Picture this.

He unfolds the piece of paper.

Picture this.

He lays it side by side with the yellow newspaper clipping on the table.

Picture this.  
  
"Snitch, brace yourself. I know you've kinda been out of it in the last few weeks. But you can't keep living like this." So you lean over and scan the two articles.

_No_.

Picture this.

"This is a joke," you hear yourself whisper, voice sounding too foreign amidst the wild palpitations of your heart in your ears. _This is a _joke 

Picture this.  
  
_Adam Goorjian._ Skittery's name across the top in fluid and immaculate Times New Roman font. You don't dare yourself read anymore before your eyes dart to the newspaper clipping. Same thing: _Adam Goorjian_. And your eyes fall to the rest of it in vision blurred with flaming salt.

Picture this.

A certificate of death.  
  
Picture this.

An obituary.

Picture this.

You suddenly can't stop screaming.

Picture this.

Itey can't stop crying, even as he tries to calm your hysteria.

Picture this.

And the world seems to collapse around you.

Picture.

This.

No. _It does_.

And you go on screaming, head thrown back, eyes clenched tightly shut, sealing together with tears that send salty trails down your face, mixing with mucus and sweat. Itey is holding onto you tightly one moment, and the next you're weightless. Defying gravity. And, oh shit, you remember this morning and think _the ceiling's got me now, this is the fucking end_.

"SNITCH!"

Picture this.

Tears still fresh on your face, body being assaulted via painful shaking, your force your wounded eyes open. Your breathing seems to stop altogether, as does your heart, time literally freezes, for just a moment, before realization dawns and you find yourself crying all over again.

"It's okay, Snitch. I got ya. It's okay. Shh."

Picture this.

You're being held. Something so tangible, it makes you weak, makes you hold on as tightly as possible. The whispered words so right, you realize if this continues you're never gonna stop crying. "It's okay. I'm holding on and not letting go. It'll be alright."

Picture this.

A cell phone rings in the other room and you both ignore it. You manage to choke out "you're phone's working again." He doesn't respond, only continues to hold you, rocking the both of you back and forth steadily.

Picture this.  
  
You've calmed down a little, though you still cling to him. He sighs. "You hungry? I brought home lunch today."  
  
Picture this.

You kiss Skittery.

Picture this.

He blushes. "I'm sorry I was late."  
  
Picture this.

You shake your head. "No. You're right on time." The two of you head to the kitchen, shakily, but hand-in-hand. And nothing could be stronger than that.

Picture this.

You shed a few more tears of relief. Because it was all just a goddamned dream.

And  
  
_"Picture this."_  
  
becomes…

…almost picture perfect.

-fin-

A/N: Gah. Thanks for reading, I hope you guys enjoyed it. Please review? Cheers.


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